The Bohemian Murders by Dianne Day Page B

mention consuming it—with no damage to myself or to him. In fact the evening was quite like old times, until I mentioned my concerns about the Poor Drowned Woman. He refused to discuss her beyond reiterating that she could not have been from Carmel because none of Carmel’s residents was missing. The fact that I wanted to pursue the matter, and he did not, only pointed out how far apart we’d grown. He left soon thereafter. My great personal victory was that I neither burned the beef nor cried myself to sleep that Sunday night.
    When an entire week had passed with no news whatsoever of the Poor Drowned Woman, I left my morning’s ledger and asked Quincy to come in and have a cup of coffee with me. Which I suppose was presumptuous as it was his coffee to begin with, but anyway he came.
    To my great surprise, he took off his hat at table. I had never before seen him without it. Ducking his head, he scraped long gray locks behind his ears. I busied myself with putting a few cookies on a plate, to give him time to compose himself.
    When I sensed he was ready I put the plate on the table and sat down myself. “Quincy,” I began, “I need some advice.”
    He looked a bit wary. “I dunno, Miss Fremont—”
    “Really, Quincy, if I call you Quincy, and I do all the time, you must call me simply Fremont. When you say ‘Miss’ like that, it makes me feel like somebody’s maiden aunt!”
    He grinned and picked up his coffee mug without responding.
    I picked up mine, too, and said, “I hope you don’t mind the mugs. I know Hettie always used china cups, but I prefer a mug myself.”
    Quincy grinned wider and said, “You’re a caution, Miss Fremont, and no mistake.”
    I sighed and rolled my eyes in an exaggerated manner.
    Quincy said, “Sorry, I forgot. Just Fremont. This is good coffee, Fremont.”
    “It should be. You made it yourself.” We both laughed, and I got back on subject. “Seriously, Quincy. You’ve lived here in the Grove for a long time, haven’t you?”
    “Yep,” he nodded and slurped a bit.
    “Do you have any friends on the police force?”
    He reared back in his chair, looking at me as if I’d suddenly grown two heads. “Police?”
    It was perfectly clear he didn’t consider the police as potential friends, so I tried another tack. “How about the coroner, Dr. Bright? Do you know him?”
    “Nope.”
    As I have previously observed, our Quincy is a laconicfellow. I tried again. “Have you any idea where Dr. Bright would have taken the body of that woman we found off Point Pinos a week ago? As far as I have been able to ascertain, there is no morgue either here or in Monterey. Would they take her as far away as Salinas?” Salinas, thirty miles away on the other side of the Santa Lucia Mountains, is the county seat.
    Quincy scratched his head, his gentle eyes going all soft with thought. Eventually he said, “Don’t think so. Think the coroner took her over to Community Hospital—that’s what usually happens to people that drown in the bay. He hasta do that whatchamacallit—” “Autopsy?”
    “Right. Before their people can come take ’em away for burying.”
    “That’s just it, Quincy. I don’t think anybody could take that poor woman away, because nobody knew who she was. And there hasn’t been one single thing in the newspaper about that body being found. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
    He looked at me solemnly and slowly shook his head. Without a word.
    “Well?” I sounded impatient. Not being the laconic type myself, after a while it wears thin. “Come on, Quincy. You know something more, I can tell. Talk to me!
    “Dunno as I should,” he mumbled down into his coffee mug.
    I got up and poured more coffee for him. No sugar or cream—he drank it black. As do I.
    I sat down again and leaned toward him. “Please?” It took him a while to make up his mind, and while he was doing it he looked everywhere but at me. The clock ticked. The wind, which blows variably but